An Imperial Holiday Special
by Agamar Rules The Galaxy
Summary: Ben Skywalker and Grand Admiral Gilad Pellaeon join forces to spread some Life Day cheer.
1. Chapter 1

"Goooood morning, Empire, this is Mynock and Brax with the Life Day countdown! That's right, people, we're just a week away from Life Day, and boy, is Bastion gearing up to bring 47 ABY to a close! Ain't that right, Mynock?"

"Too right, Brax. The streets are lined with lights and ribbons, the people are out caroling, and-"

Groggy hands fumbled across the surface of a bedside holonet transceiver, hitting every button in a desperate bid to mute the broadcast. With a groan, Ben Skywalker crawled out of bed, slapping himself awake. For all of his might in the Force, he still couldn't quite shake the effects of travel lag. It certainly didn't help that the beds in the Imperial Palace guest rooms were made of the same material as the most comfortable chair ever designed. Not that he was complaining, or anything. The comforts of the palace were a welcome change from sterile Mon Cal warships and boring old Ossus. Jag and Jaina had spared no expense to make the place as cheery, luxurious, and homey as possible. A holiday wreath adorned with silver bells hung from his door. His sheets, opulently soft and warm, were a rich Rosso Imperiale, conveniently the right color for the holidays. A miniature life tree stood in the corner of his room, its multicolored lights twinkling happily. The refreshers had hot tubs, heated toilet seats, and a shower with a sauna setting. It could give most luxury hotels a run for their money.

"Good morning, Empire," he muttered, yawning as he set his room's coffee maker to reheat a pot of last night's chocolate. He sighed as he spotted his luggage dumped unceremoniously beside the door, still packed. He made a mental note to unpack properly later. As he poured himself a mug of the holiest of beverages, there was a knock at his door.

"Ben? You up yet, sleepyhead?"

"Syal?"

"Yeah. Breakfast's ready out in the dining hall. Jag and Jaina wanted to see you, too."

Ben grunted in acknowledgement and grabbed some clothes from his bags that he hoped would look presentable.

* * *

By the time Ben arrived in the Imperial Couple's private dining room, it was clear that he was the last guest to wake up. Most of the plates had been cleared away except for one. Two golden eggs, two pieces of perfectly toasted bread, and a pile of steaming ground nerf hash had been laid out for him. Jag and Jaina pored over a collection of datapads and papers across from his breakfast, periodically jotting down notes or ticking check boxes.

"Morning, Benny," Jag said, raising his coffee mug in greeting.

"You two look busy," Ben replied, clinking his mug against Jag's.

Jaina brushed an errant lock of hair back and sighed in mock frustration. "Life Day prep does that to you. We sent most of the palace staff home so they could be with their families this week. We've been handling pretty much all of the planning and shopping. And we need your help to finish a few things."

Ben nodded, shoveling a forkful of the hash into his mouth with one hand and receiving a datapad from Jaina with the other. He raised an eyebrow and swallowed. "Jaina, some of these things are off-world. I didn't bring a ship."

"We've got that covered," Jag said. "We've set aside a shuttle for you to get to Bastion Spacedock. _Chimaera_ is waiting for you in orbit."

"Come again?"

"Grand Admiral Pellaeon's working with a skeleton crew at the moment. He's got some stuff that needs doing, too, and your list happens to be on his route. Don't worry, it's not that long of a trip. Pellaeon runs a tight ship and a strict timetable. You'll be back in time for Life Day. Think of it as a chance to make some more friends."

Ben snorted in amusement. "Sure. Why not?"

* * *

A few hours later, Ben was suddenly grateful that he'd forgotten to unpack. As he made his way to the shuttle, he passed some of the other guests. Syal and Myri, the Antilles sisters, greeted him with bright smiles, both lugging boxes of bulk chocolate in the opposite direction. On one of the palace landing pads, Lumpawaroo, Uncle Han, and Auntie Leia waved hello and bid him a safe trip as they fussed over some new mechanical problem on the _Millennium Falcon_ 's outer hull. When he finally reached his destination, dear old Ma and Pa Skywalker were up there waiting for him, clad in matching garish holiday-themed sweaters dotted with happy little NJO logos.

"Nice outfits," Ben said, giving his father a fist bump.

"Just you wait," Luke grumbled in faux frustration. "When Life Day does come around, you, too, will be subject to the pain of the itchy sweater."

"Where did you even get those?"

"Tionne Solusar made them for us and mailed them here," Mara said.

"To celebrate Mara's first Life Day back from the dead." How had she returned from the dead, one might ask? A story for another time. In the space of a second, Luke's discomfort was completely forgotten, replaced by pure, unbridled joy. He pulled Mara closer and gave her a peck on the cheek. "Shame he can't come with us, though."

"Jag and Jaina got a different to-do list lined up for you two?"

"Mmhm. Plus, your mother wants to do some of her own shopping." There was a bit of a weary sigh in that last sentence.

"Oh woe is me," Ben said, melodramatically putting a hand to his head. "How tragic that I won't have to spend the week sitting for hours, waiting for mother to finish bargaining with the hooded troglodytes at a bazaar of full of girl things."

Mara pouted. "Rude. How do you know I'm not shopping for guns, speeders, and starships?"

"All the _good_ gun stores and speeder dealerships are on Corellia and TIEs aren't your style."

Luke nodded sagely. "He's right."

Mara harrumphed as father and son shared a chuckle. "Shut up and fly the shuttle, farm boy."

* * *

Gilad Pellaeon hummed a merry tune as he ran through _Chimaera's_ pre-flight checklist. Like Mara, he, too, had been saved from the jaws of death, though his return had been considerably more mundane. After a speedy retrieval from his undignified "death" at Fondor, some clever doctoring, a lot of luck, and an obscene amount of bacta, the Imperial Couple's doctors had managed to resuscitate him in secret while some friends in high places maintained the illusion of his apparent demise. After the successful campaign against the Maw Irregular Fleet, the need to keep up that ruse had disappeared, allowing him to return to some semblance of normalcy. The successful recapture of _Chimaera_ was icing on the proverbial cake. His wounds still ached with residual pain, but still, it was nice to be back in the fleet, preparing to test out _Chimaera's_ new engine and hyperdrive upgrades.

As he walked through _Chimaera's_ corridors, the crew he passed greeted him with salutes and smiles. They were all feeling the holiday cheer, in no small part thanks to the adjustments Pellaeon had made to his uniform for the week. His white grand admiral uniform was shelved, temporarily replaced by a red uniform reminiscent of Ysanne Isard's, only with a cheerier shade of red and a green belt. He had also made sure to complete the uniform with a similarly red officer's cap, trimmed with a small bit of white fur along the brim to give it a more festive look. If only Thrawn could see him now.

Pellaeon checked the shipboard clock and pinged the bridge on his commlink. "Pellaeon to bridge."

"We hear you, Grand Admiral."

"I'm leaving temporarily to pick up a passenger. XO Lasko has command in the meantime."

"Acknowledged, sir. Bridge out."

* * *

As with every holiday season, Bastion Spacedock's military platform was packed. Herds of space-lagged Imp servicemen shuffled towards the baggage claim areas or huddled on the benches at their assigned boarding gates. Occasionally, one or two could be seen ogling something titillating on a datapad or magazine. The scent of hot food was thick in the air as hungry stormtroopers, TIE jockeys, and naval spacemen flocked to the eateries. At the food court's Biscuit Baron, Ben even saw a stormtrooper platoon join forces with the kitchen staff to subdue a giant amorphous bantha breakfast biscuit, no doubt spawned by an overworked autochef machine and a bad batch of biscuit ingredients. The boarding gate hooked up to _Chimaera_ , however, was empty save for the droid clerk at the ticket scanning desk. A quick flash of the credentials on Jag and Jaina's datapad and moments later, he was saluting Grand Admiral Pellaeon in the docking tube. He couldn't quite hide his surprise at seeing the straight-up-and-down Pellaeon dressed like he was ready to rain gifts and festive warmth down on some Rebel scum.

"I'll have you know, Sir Knight, that this is standard-issue Imperial holiday attire."

"There was no doubt in my mind, sir." Ben smirked, catching the hint of a smile tugging at Pellaeon's face. "I'm sure festive uniform colors are as normal in the Empire as owning a boat cloak."

"I _do,_ in fact, own a Navy-issue boat cloak," Pellaeon pointed out. Indeed, he was probably the _only_ person in the Imperial Navy to have ever owned such an obscure piece of clothing. "Now, have the Emperor and Empress furnished you with a travel itinerary?"

Ben passed him Jag and Jaina's datapad. "They have, sir."

"Very good. Come along, then. Let's go spread some holiday cheer."


	2. Chapter 2

_Chimaera_ made her first stop at a place near and dear to the Empire's heart: Lianna, home to Sienar Fleet Systems' corporate headquarters, testing grounds, and largest factory complex. Visible from orbit was the Sienarium, a brand-new addition to the Santhe/Sienar office campus. From the ground, it appeared to be a gigantic glass-topped dome of durasteel flanked by a pair of black pentagonal towers. From above, however, its appearance was rather more apparent. It looked like a gigantic TIE/LN fighter embedded into the planet's surface. Ysanne Isard and _Lusankya_ , eat your hearts out.

Pellaeon and Ben passed that building and made a beeline straight for the nearest shopping center, the Commercia Spire. It was a shopping complex large enough to rival Coruscant's own marketplaces, made prosperous by Lianna's status as a key shipping hub and the ludicrous spending power of Santhe/Sienar employees, whose paychecks had grown fat on the commissions of countless Moffs and Imperial warlords over the years. At this time of year, the Commercia Spire was packed with hordes of not just local shoppers but tourists and expats, all rushing to find the biggest, baddest deals. In one duty free store, Ben spotted a pair of Duros in floral pattern shirts excitedly talking over a case of locally made brandy. Over by a clothing store, a Gran struggled to muscle an overstuffed suitcase up a set of stairs. Pellaeon didn't bother rubbernecking or taking in the sights, marching quickly towards the gourmet food shops in the basement levels.

"First order of business," Pellaeon said, "is to bring a little bit of holiday cheer to Mister Sienar."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "I thought Sienar was run by Valles Santhe."

"It _was_ ," Pellaeon said. "But she was assassinated two months ago. The company is now run by one Cadmus Sienar, allegedly a distant relation of the late Raith Sienar."

"'Allegedly,' sir?"

"You'll see. Now, what do you think will be an appropriate gift? The Empire must bid a properly dark greeting to the new CEO as a show of good faith."

"I'm not familiar with the desires of the corporate elite, sir. Does this guy have a wish list? Anything in particular he really likes?"

Pellaeon sighed, remembering board rooms that smelled of alcohol and glitterstim, the walls festooned with the maddened scribbles spawned by Raith Sienar's insane genius: the TIE Lancer with its single elongated side wing panel; the TIE Demolisher built from the Punisher's chassis but with turbolasers in place of bomb pods; the three-balled TIE Oculus; the TIE Planet, vetoed by Palpatine and Tarkin on account of being _too_ ridiculous. "The things most desired by any Sienar CEO are so illegal that possession would damn us both to multiple death sentences in two hundred star systems."

As they strolled through the market, Ben spotted a rather nice gift box of holiday sausages and cheeses. "How about Taanab Ranch?"

"That works. Into the cart it goes."

"Sounds good. Next up, I need to pick up some stuff for the palace kitchens."

* * *

For the first time in months, Sienar Fleet Systems experienced a rare moment of quiet. Nearly everyone had gone home or fallen into an intoxicated stupor, leaving only Cadmus Sienar awake to work so close to the holidays. His office was as messy as any of his predecessors', piled high with paperwork and sheets of TIE blueprint drafts. A half-empty barrel of glitterstim sat in one corner next to an ever-growing pile of empty bottles of strong liquor. In front of his desk, Cadmus Sienar pored over a miniature model of a planned office complex set to be built somewhere in the Mid Rim. The building was, as expected, shaped like a TIE Interceptor when viewed from above.

"The food court needs to be bigger," he muttered. "All the big franchises will want in."

"Mister Sienar," droned the receptionist droid, "two guests have arrived requesting an audience with your majestic presence."

Sienar, his back turned to the intercom and elevator, grunted. "Humbug. On today, of all days. Very well, send them up. I shall deal with them."

"As you wish, Mister Sienar." The line crackled with static for a moment, then shut off. A second later, he heard the elevator's ascent, passing each floor with the chime of a little bell. He counted the times the bell rang. One hundred, a nice and pleasing number. Two sets of footsteps tapped on the black marble floor of his chambers.

"At last. You came here prepared to fight a madman and instead, you found a god!" Sienar boomed, making sure to flick his cape aside in a dramatic flourish as he turned to meet the newcomers. Upon seeing his guests, however, his voice dropped a few decibels. "Oh. I was expecting someone else. Hello, Pellaeon."

"Hello, Sienar. We come bearing a gift."

"Indeed? Tribute for the mighty Cadmus Sienar?"

Pellaeon waved Ben forward, wordlessly gesturing for him to place the goods on Sienar's desk. Unable to find any empty space, Ben simply laid the box on top of a pile of TIE sketches.

"Taanab Ranch? This pleases Sienar." Sienar looked down upon the young Jedi with a look of condescending approval, like a God-Emperor acknowledging the efforts of a favored serf. It was then that Ben realized what Pellaeon had meant by the use of the word, "allegedly." The man who called himself Cadmus Sienar looked uncannily like a young Raith Sienar. _Too_ much like Raith, in fact. Was he a clone? A body double? A long-lost twin? Had Raith survived his assassination and gone all in on rejuvenat treatments? It was impossible to tell.

"You may depart," Sienar said, waving the two off dismissively as he walked over to the glitterstim barrel, unwrapping a sausage from the Taanab Farms box. "New Force-damned StealthX beating my TIE Spectre," he muttered, dipping the sausage in the glitterstim and taking a bite. "Mock the glory of Sienar, will they? I'll teach those smug little Incom shits how to make a real starfighter. I'll make a better stealth TIE. It'll have turbolasers and a SLAM and-"

"Is he going to be okay?" Ben asked Pellaeon.

"You heard the man. Come on now, best for us not to linger here too long." The grand admiral grabbed Ben's shoulder and hurried him out of the mad executive's office, leaving Cadmus Sienar to enjoy the holiday in his own twisted fashion. "Happy Life Day, Sienar."

"You, too, Pellaeon. Now, Interceptor or Hunter panels?"

* * *

A few hyperspace jumps away from Lianna, there floated a pirate stronghold. It was home to band of ruffians known to nearby colonies as the Meteor Dogs, a pack of vicious killers and slavers. All was quiet on the Meteor Dogs' space station this time of year as they slept off hangovers and drug-induced stupors. Only one of them stirred, roused by the sudden impact of a curious cylindrical pod in the station's habitation sector. As he shuffled over to investigate, he heard music.

"Life Day music?" he asked himself, readying his blaster pistol as he stepped in front of the pod. Before he could say any more, explosive bolts blew the pod's hatch open and out stepped a hulking giant of blackened durasteel and phrik. One of its arms terminated in a rotary heavy repeater and the other in a gigantic metal fist wreathed in lightning and the glow of a repulsor field. It was a Dark Trooper, one of the first of a new generation. It, along with three of its brother-machines, had been sent on this cruise to be field tested, much like _Chimaera's_ hyperdrive and engines. As one might expect, certain interested parties in the Empire had insisted that it be painted Life Day red and that it play Life Day jingles from its voice box. And as one might also expect, the pirate in question responded to this intrusion by screaming like a little girl.

Pellaeon watched the den of pirate scum burn as the Dark Troopers went about their grisly work. "I love the smell of burning criminal scum in the morning. Smells like victory. And before you ask, yes, ImpInt sources _did_ conclude that their crimes were punishable by death sentences in every nearby system, as well as in the latest edition of the Dark Book of Imperial Justice."

"Still working on holidays, eh, sir?" Ben asked.

"When you love your job, every day is all play and no work. I'm sure it made some nearby colonies very happy. Pellaeon to shuttle Gamma Seven, scans show no more pirates on the installation. You may commence Dark Trooper retrieval. We'll send another shuttle along to rescue any prisoners shortly."

* * *

After dropping the pirates' slaves and hostages off at the nearest friendly space station, _Chimaera's_ next stop was Hoth, where the crew was due to retrieve a shipment of tauntaun milk. The Empire took its Hoth chocolate seriously, it seemed. Down on the planet's sole tauntaun ranch, Ben and two of _Chimaera_ 's stormtroopers tried to pass the time by their Sentinel landing craft as Pellaeon tackled the mountain of paperwork required to purchase the quantities of milk demanded by the Imperial Couple's holiday shopping list. Apparently, Hoth was the kind of place that was so boring that the few sapient locals planetside made a sport out of maximizing the tedium of their bureaucracy.

"Damn," said one of the stormtroopers, "all of _that_ for one party?"

"Doubt it's just the one," Ben replied. "You see the farmhands marking those storage bladders with different colors of tape? Might be that they're going to two separate purposes. Fewer ones marked with blue tape, so I'm guessing those are for the Emperor and Empress and the rest are for something else."

"Could be. Say, you're a Jedi, right?"

"Yep."

"Heads up."

Ben drew his lightsaber as he saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye, seeing the stormtrooper winding up to throw something. The snowball hit his blade, releasing a cloud of steam.

"Pretty good," the stormtrooper said, stooping to put together another snowball. "Faster on the trigger than the last Jedi I worked with."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Seemed she was still getting used to those Jedi reflexes. Here's another."

Ben whiffed the next shot, slipping on some ice and stumbling. The snowball sailed over his shoulder and into the second stormtrooper, beaning him right on the helmet.

"Ooh, that's some blue on blue right there," Ben said, straightening up.

"TRAITOR!" the other trooper roared, twirling his entrenching tool and scooping up some snow of his own. Before he could retaliate, however, Pellaeon arrived.

"2187's heinous betrayal will be dealt with later, trooper," he said with a completely straight face. "For now, it is time to load our precious cargo onto the Sentinel. Sir Knight, if you would be so kind, your aid would be much appreciated."

"Not one for snowball fights, sir?" Ben holstered his saber and started making his way to the pallets of storage bladders.

"A grand admiral of the Empire does not have snowball fights, young Skywalker. Now carry on. We're on a tight schedule here."

"Aye aye, sir." Ben and the troopers set up at the first pallet, with Ben using the Force to lift most of the weight while each of the troopers supported a side. Right as he got properly focused to actually channel the Force, however, something cold and soft smacked him in the back of the head. As he turned, he saw Pellaeon trying his damnedest to hide his smile under his mustache. Grumbling in exaggerated frustration, Ben and the troopers got to work.

"Very good, gentlemen," Pellaeon said. "Once this is done, we'll be on our way back to Bastion and get to stop at Ossus along the way. If all goes well, we'll be home right in time for the festivities. I'm also expecting a shipment to arrive around that time."


	3. Chapter 3

The last item on Jag and Jaina's to-do list was on Ossus. Jaina had given him a few items to bring as gifts to certain persons there to brighten up their holidays. The temple complex was quiet this time of year as most of the students and instructors had shipped off to be with their families. None of that Old Jedi Order no-family nonsense here, not anymore.

A few of the cleaning droids gave him canned greetings, which he returned in haste as he hurried through the nearly empty halls. Pellaeon hadn't given him much time before he had to be back on _Chimaera_. The first stop on Ben's route was Kyle Katarn's office. The old man had left with Jan Ors to spend Life Day on a tropical paradise world somewhere, but that didn't mean Ben couldn't pick the lock. He placed a DC-17m Interchangeable Weapon System on the man's desk. Long since discontinued, the DC-17m ICWS had become exceedingly rare in the post-Clone Wars galaxy. Ben had no idea what sort of dark sorcery Jag and Jaina had pulled off to acquire one, let alone one in near-perfect condition with all the bells and whistles plus several boxes of ammunition. The only other time he'd seen such a gun was on an episode of Forgotten Blasters and the one on that show no longer had its sniper or anti-armor attachments.

"Master Katarn, you are one lucky son of a bith," Ben said, locking the office door behind him as he searched for the next recipient. He found him in the mess hall grabbing a drink out of the vending machines.

"Skywalker?"

"Ah, Rosh Penin, just the man I was looking for." Ben reached into his bag and handed Rosh a folder.

"What's this?"

"A gift from her highness, Jaina Solo-Fel. She says she made it for you."

Shrugging, Rosh opened the folder and pulled out a very large framed holo of Jaina's hand flipping him a one-fingered salute, along with an autograph and a note saying, "You know what you did."

Confused, Rosh opened his mouth to complain, only to look up and see that Ben had disappeared, already moving on to spread some more holiday cheer. Fancy stringed instrument in Tionne Solusar's mailbox, expensive liquor with pretentious adjectives for Corran Horn, and a whole lot of other personalized and incredibly fancy gifts for the other council members. Satisfied with his delivery, Ben hurried to the shuttle that would bring him back to _Chimaera_.

* * *

Upon arriving on Bastion, Pellaeon was scheduled to host an annual Clone Wars veterans reunion breakfast. Since he was along for the ride, Ben had been brought in as a guest. Every year, the number of people attending the dinner dwindled and the mood got more and more somber, especially among the scant handful of surviving Fett clones. Well, it did until someone noticed a family resemblance that wasn't Fett-related.

"Say," said one of the clones, "you look like someone I used to know. Tell me, son, did you have any ancestors who fought in the Clone Wars?"

"I did, actually." Ben coughed awkwardly. "My, um, grandfather."

"A grandfather whose name happens to be Anakin Skywalker," Pellaeon added. "Don't worry, Ben, they all love that name around here."

" _The_ Anakin Skywalker." The clone let out an impressed whistle. He called out to the other clones in the room. "Hey, boys, get a load of this. You won't believe who the Grand Admiral brought as a guest."

Within seconds, the mood had gone from bittersweet to joyous as the clones all greeted Ben a happy Life Day. Even some of the other Republic veterans got in on it, having served with or been saved by Anakin Skywalker at some point or another during the Wars. Those who hadn't met Anakin just watched, but they, too, couldn't help but get swept up in the change in tone. Almost everyone had a story to tell about Anakin Skywalker, the conquering hero, the charismatic leader, the great ace of his time. He had been a father to his men and now, those men saw the young Jedi as their adoptive little brother. Ben listened with rapt attention as they regaled him with all manner of war stories. Some were tales of valiant defenses against the droid hordes, some of desperate struggles on inhospitable death worlds, some of steamy love affairs during shore leave, and some of the simple hijinks of military downtime. For instance, Ben learned how to tell whether or not a porta-shitter had been used by clones: check to see if all the gentleman's sausages doodled on the walls looked exactly the same. The more you know. Before they could go on too long, however, Pellaeon gently put a stop to the storytelling, reminding them of the food.

"Now, now, gentlemen," Pellaeon said, "the boy needs to eat. He's had to subsist on a diet of Star Destroyer mess hall chow for the past few days. I think it's time he got some real food again. And you'll all be pleased to know that I brought in a special treat. The package arrived in the mail this morning. Sir Knight, if you don't mind opening the crate?"

Ben saluted and marched over to the crate next to the buffet line, cracking it open with a crowbar. Inside the crate were neatly stacked boxes of Old Republic MREs.

"'Grand Army of the Republic meal, combat, individual type C,'" Ben read aloud. There were loud cheers and laughs as the Republic veterans were treated to the sight of the treasured old C ration. Unbeknownst to Ben, the C-rats had been a low-key favorite among the GAR enlisted for their hearty main courses and good selection of luxury goodies. For the veterans in the room, it was a hit to the nostalgia feels.

"Indeed," Pellaeon said. "And as the guest of honor, you get to open the first case. Remind these men what goes into one of these, please."

With a shrug, Ben saluted. "As you wish, sir. Alright, let's get this out onto a tray."

Fetching a nearby mess tray, Ben set one of the MRE boxes on a table and started laying out its contents. "Nice. Snack breads. Coffee, instant, type 1. Minced groat and eggs breakfast tin with built-in flameless heater. Fish soup lunch course. Chopped nerf dinner course. Cheese spread for the snack bread. Boiled sweets, cigarras, toilet paper, napkins, disposable can opener, spoon, dessert loaf, and, uh, not sure what this is. Scho-ka-klone?"

The last item was met with even louder cheers. Scho-ka-klone, a stimulant-laced chocolate, had been the coveted crown jewel of the GAR C ration, thanks to its pleasant and authentic taste as well as its ability to keep a GAR trooper awake and alert for ages. After the Clone Wars, the recipe had changed to make the chocolate cheaper to manufacture, but it never could live up to the good old stuff. Finding good, intact C ration Scho-ka-klone was a rare treat for anyone interested in military cuisine.

"Fantastic quality on this," Ben noted, "not a hint of rancidity. And these are how old?"

"Older than you," Pellaeon replied with a chuckle. He raised a glass of whisky to the assembled veterans, now all bright and cheery. "A toast. Happy Life Day, all of you. It is an honor to be among you all today, and an honor to have served with you."

"To the Republic!" called out one ex-navy spacer.

"To duty!"

"To Skywalker!"

"Aye, I'll drink to Skywalker, alright," said a bald, bearded clone in the back. "Hey, Benny, the Force ever let you speak to the dead? Let your granddad know his favorite captain says hello.

"Appo's dead, though," said another clone.

"Shut up, Scorch."

Pellaeon laughed. Ben laughed. The other veterans laughed. Everyone had a good time. But as with all fun things, time flew, and before long, it was time for Ben to return to the Palace with the gifts and ingredients he'd picked up from the trip. The clones took it upon themselves to carry Ben on their shoulders to the speeder waiting to take him back home for the night, singing a festive rendition of "Vode An" as they bid their new little brother goodbye. Jedi and Grand Admiral shook hands, saluted one another, and at last parted ways.

* * *

It was close to midnight when the Skywalker-Solo-Antilles-Fel-kitchen sink celebration finally ended. There was roast nerf, Hoth chocolate, and a fireworks show courtesy of the palace droids. Lumpawaroo had brought a box of special Life Day Wookiee-ookiees. Baron Fel, the elder Syal, Wedge Antilles, and Iella Wessiri Antilles showed up as late arrivals from delayed flights to get uproariously drunk with Luke, Han, and Jag. Mara watched Syal, Myri, and Jaina coach Leia through games of Armada and Legion against Ben. Ben lost every game. Badly. He grumbled about the fickleness of the random number gods while the girls ribbed him about his skills.

"Only a poor player blames the dice," Leia said, watching with glee as her miniature snowtroopers erased the last of Ben's poor Rebel soldiers from the playing field.

Eventually, after the drinks had run out and the last table scraps had gone cold, Ben retired to his room tired but content. It was nice to act like a proper, normal family for once instead of everyone being busy with some war or other. Immediately, he set one last cup of Hoth chocolate on his bedside table, got comfortable, and bundled up in blankets, cracking open some reading material to spend the last minutes of Life Day in peace and quiet. Outside, the lights of Bastion's capital city, once vibrant and cheery, had dimmed in the waning hours of the holiday, seemingly prepared to wind down to sleep with him. He was just about to dig right into the latest volume of _Fist of the Death Star_ when a knock at his door put it all on hold.

"Speak, friend, and enter," he boomed, putting on his most imperious voice.

Syal stepped in, and she was clad in the most scandalously short bathrobe he'd ever seen, showing quite a bit of leg. Ben tried to say something witty but his tongue turned to mush.

Syal blushed. "Hey, Ben, got a minute to help with a clog? Something's up with our shower."

"Um. Sure. Yeah, okay."

Outside, the halls of the Imperial Palace guest quarters had fallen silent, save for the patter of Ben and Syal's bare feet.

"Guess they're still breaking in the new palace."

"Is that how it works?"

"Probably not. I'm not even sure how new this is. Could be the pipes are really old, too. After you."

Syal held the door access button down and waved him in. While Ben had the luxury of being assigned a single-person guest room, the Antilles sisters had been assigned a double. The girls' beds and luggage were on opposite flanks of the room, which was far larger than his. A scented candle flickered happily on the coffee table in front of their couch, filling the room with the scent of Life Day spices. As Ben stepped into the girls' refresher, he realized that Syal hadn't brought him here for a plumbing conundrum at all.

"So that's what the bulk order of chocolate was for," was all he could say.

Myri sat in the bathtub with the biggest grin on her face, partially submerged in melted chocolate. She lifted a dainty, chocolate-covered foot and waggled her toes. "Hello there. Come on in, water's fine."

"I've been tricked," Ben hissed, turning to face Syal as he heard the door slide shut. It was at that moment that Ben realized he'd been flanked. She blocked the exit, giving him a wink as she undid the belt on her bathrobe. Save for some impressively strategically placed lengths of ribbon, she wore nothing underneath. And she wasted no time moving in for the kill.

"Clever girls."


End file.
